And all the king’s men
Were a cursedly rotten bunch
Took the corrupt out to lunch
While their allies launched
Bombs that eviscerated
The hearts and bodies
Of the foreigners and natives

The handcuff bites my wrist
as teeth sink, searing flesh.
A breath, a scent too familiar to forget.
Blind.
Massive palms, razor point
carving canyons down my spine,
blood is the wine.
The burn of beard
feigning consent.
Fistfuls of hair conquering words.
A corpse to rob me of life,
the press of perversity against satin.
Fighting, writhing
satisfaction.
Pain swells in every limb
the wet swell reveal my sin.
Slaps stinging awake
every fiber of clothing still keeping me safe.
The drive of possession
splitting secrets wide,
fingers around throat clenching tight.
Sweat running red,
the rising growls growls resonate in my head.
The raw force bruising
like claiming a slave,
body & mind consuming.
Ferocity leads to frenzy,
my senses rage against me,
The thickness rips,
devours,
conquers my body for paradise.
And I scream in the ecstasy taken.
A clenching incites eruptions,
the pulsing beast flooding.
My purpose awakened.

Bullets bouncing off of wet concrete
still hot to the touch....

Outside my window, a sea of blood
millions upon millions of pictures plastered over television screens

Outside my window, bodies laid bare....
white eyes and frozen skin....

Stain glass window, one hundred million faces
outside my stain glass window....

let me paint you a picture
in shades of black and white
in shades of those who ****
and those who fight
this is what racism looks like
black men with paper hearts
armed with cardboard swords
white men dipped in ivory steel
white men born armed with skin
it's a black man with hands
raised to the heavens
and seeing hell as his last sight
this is what racism feels like
it's your black breath
being ****** out of your lungs
by white hands of white men
dressed in blue gilded in gold
this is what racism sounds like
it's an 18-year old's last words
it's a mother's cry at a police station
it's a bullet racing through the air
this is what racism is
it is not poetry
it's a black man wearing a red shirt
and getting shot six times
this is no crusade
there is no holy purpose
this is the star-spangled truth
a flag drenched in black blood
this is the truth bared in ink
and no poetry can save it

JEROME
you mar
her skin the colour
of midnight and dawn
like a palette
your mother never brought you
because she was too busy opening her leg
like a gastro pub
the one you have to wait in line to
with the sign "WE'RE CLOSED"
only one deadman short
  

they tell you to love her
the right way
leave her gasping but breathing
standing but swimming
but what
when someone's right is another person's wrong
but how
when you still don't know
house is a building and home is the person
so ******* blame her for
thinking you don't love her when these red and blue
painting her skin is
your version of love bite
and the hallow on her cheek is because your hand
wants to be kissed too
just like your heart
but too bad your father scooped it up and sold it on a
secondhand store with no return policy

blame her
for building a bridge only to set them on fire
and hope for asphalt to surface
or footsteps by the sand with LED sign ' HEAVEN IS HER

but what
when you can't even differentiate whether love is
bliss or rupture
but how
when not even a shooting star can find their way back
so blame her
by loving the **** out of her
chase her until
she runs away
draw her name in abandond graveyards
because god knows how you hope
she can be their salvation
and when she is, maybe, just maybe she can
be yours too
but never ever blame her for
leaving you because
you know
you splatter so many colors on her
how she is no longer a centerpiece of
a masterpiece
how your romantic grandeur ends up a VIP spot
on the living room couch

how you beg until
your knees scraped to its skull
for her to tie a noose one last time
don't blame her for the words that
clogs your lungs so hard you thought
you'd die because of it
don't blame her
never blame her
"What happened?"
"It was my fault anyway."


JEROME
oh, JEROME
hasn't anyone told you
a monster can be someone else's angel too?

what will you do?
what will you think?
when
the
time
comes.

what will you do?
what will you think?
when
then
time
comes
to do anything.

you've never really done a ******* thing
and you've never really thought about it,
you've never really ever made a single choice
that every really meant a thing,
or had a
consequence.

keep on coasting
keep on treading
and the weight of all
those woulds coulds and shoulds
will pull you down
drag you under,
make you drown
make you drown.

this is the time
this is the thunder

you are the strike
you are the violence

a stab in the dark
to cut through the blindness

the storm is upon you
if you're not a part of it
it'll tear you asunder

let the rain wash you down
let yourself feel electric

cause you are the strike
you are the violence

the pulse of the fight
the howl in the night
you are the current
that's bringing this
world back to life.

So why do we rush in so fast?
Man has come and gone,
Seen countless wars pass,
Bloodshed, violence, bombs and more,
If there was a way to make this
World a better place, we "need" war.
If we could have chosen differently,
Fear "forces our hand" every time to
Go out and use destruction on the enemy.
I sit here, dumbfounded and confused.
No one will ever find these three things popular:
Pacifism, love, patience. Yet without these we really lose.